


Winning

by ros3bud009



Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, General silliness while doing the nasty, M/M, Oral Sex, Snowballing, Spike Worship Kinda, Sticky Sexual Interfacing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-30
Updated: 2018-07-30
Packaged: 2019-06-18 21:57:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,485
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15495534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ros3bud009/pseuds/ros3bud009
Summary: “Is red actually my color?”Misfire stilled mid-bob, flickering his optics back to life to look up at Swerve. While his helm had stopped moving, his tongue was still warm and wet and pressed against the underside of Swerve’s spike in a way that nearly distracted him completely.Nearly.





	Winning

**Author's Note:**

> Shout out to a couple of my good pals for a) initially bringing this ship to my attention and then b) inspiring me to finally sit down and write the damn thing in one go.
> 
> Because I love my boy and how could I not do something with his new boyfriend.

“Is red actually my color?”

Misfire stilled mid-bob, flickering his optics back to life to look up at Swerve. While his helm had stopped moving, his tongue was still warm and wet and pressed against the underside of Swerve’s spike in a way that nearly distracted him completely.

Nearly.

But there was no ignoring the hot shock of shame and apprehension. Misfire was going to think he had been distracted, not paying attention, and he’d be offended and affronted that Swerve would be thinking about anything else while getting his spike sucked—

And yet, Misfire didn’t look the least bit annoyed. If anything he looked thoughtful as he pulled off of Swerve’s spike with an audible pop. His optics locked with Swerve’s as he rubbed his check against Swerve’s spike, seeming to not care at all about the oral lubricant it smeared across the surface.

“Is red  _anyone’s_ color?”

Misfire’s servo was relentless as it squeezed and released Swerve’s spike, stroking lazily with no rhythm to speak of, and still pressing it against the side of his face. Pleasure coiled low in Swerve’s frame as he groaned.

“I mean, a lot of bots have red–”

“Exactly!” Misfire interrupted. “So many mechs have red as part of their colorscheme that like. Even if it looks good, it’s not, you know. Unique.  _Especially_ with you Bots. Every other one of you got red somewhere on there.”

Swerve might have been insulted if Misfire wasn’t nuzzling against his spike like it was a beloved pet.

“Like you guys don’t have a disproportionate love for purple.”

Misfire held a servo to his chest, jaw dropped and looking appalled with a level of theatrics that somehow didn’t seem at all at odds with the short fat spike still held tight to his cheek.

“How  _dare_ you. I’ll have you know this shade of purple is  _very_ unique. They don’t call it The Misfire Special for nothing.”

And Swerve couldn’t help it – he started to giggle.

Which turned into hiccups when Misfire shifted his helm down, keeping Swerve’s spike pressed to his face while sticking his glossa out to flick at the anterior node nestled just below his spike sheath.

“Ok, fine, you got me,” Misfire continued, his nose nudging along the platelets of Swerve’s spike and his ex-vents cool against Swerve’s valve lips. Swerve’s laughter finally dissipated with a shuddering moan. “But you gotta admit that I make it look good.”

“Well, obviously,” Swerve managed breathlessly. His hips bucked as Misfire mouthed at the base of his spike, lapping and sucking his way back up to the tip. “But do I look good in red?”

Misfire looked at him  _very_ carefully, his optics bright as they traced Swerve’s frame. Or, at least, as much of it that he could see with his face all but planted in Swerve’s crotch.

His lips brushed across the head the spike as he spoke.

“Ok, listen. Folks got a lot of great things to say about me, but even I’ll admit that being nice isn’t one of them,” Misfire said. He nudged at Swerve’s spike with his chin guard as a grin started to pull at his lips. “But honestly? Most bots with red could and  _should_  find a better color, but I can’t imagine you in anything else. Like, you’re  _committed_ to red, and it’s definitely working for you.”

Swerve  _whined_  as scolding hot pleasure washed over him in pulsing waves.

Misfire’s grin grew so wide it nearly split his face.

“Theeeere it is,” he singsonged gleefully. “Found your weakspot, pipsqueak.”

His glossa was slick as it swirled around the tip of Swerve’s spike, tasting the bead of transfluid that had escaped.

“Nothing like a compliment to get you off, huh?  You sick little puppy.” Swerve’s spike twitched in Misfire’s hold as he ex-vented, biting his bottom lip tight between his denta.

“It’s pretty weird, huh?”

Misfire shrugged.

“Maybe, but I love it.” The servo was stroking again as Misfire rubbed his face against the fat spike. “I can’t wait to learn how to be nice so I can give you a boner whenever I want.”

Another wave of pleasure hit at the same time that Swerve’s spark  _throbbed_ with emotion, and with a short litany of surprised curses, overload took hold of his frame without warning. Hips jerked and transfluid escaped in bursts as Swerve panted and trembled against Misfire.

The flyer’s engine purred.

“Guess you can’t aim either, huh, pipsqueak?”

Swerve onlined his visor to see that his transfluid painted the side of Misfire’s face, some having shot hard enough to catch on his helm ornament while the rest dripped down to collect between his chin and cheek guards. His glossa was sticking out to the side in an attempt to lap up some of the mess around his mouth.

Swerve meant to apologize. To say that he hadn’t realized he was so close, that he tried to hold back, that he could go get something to clean up the mess—

“Brainstorm literally made a gun just for me because I have such bad aim.”

And instead of teasing him about it, Misfire’s optics flickered as he replied, “I have got to get me one of those.”

Swerve, in his post-overload bliss, couldn’t stop himself from giggling at the mental image of Misfire carrying the ridiculous looking “My First Blaster.” And about the fact that they both had terrible aim. And the fact that Misfire continued to be on the same topic-hopping wavelength as Swerve, proving to not be the least bit put off by having unsexy conversations during every step of interfacing.

Swerve’s spark warmed with bubbly affection.

Misfire pushed up so he was face-to-face with Swerve, smacking his lips as he finished the last of the transfluid that he could reach. “You just gonna keep laughing, or are you gonna help me clean up this mess you made.”

“Yeah, yeah, hold on,” Swerve managed between giggles. His servo moved to his side to dip into his subspace, but Misfire’s servo caught him by the wrist first.

“Lick it up but don’t swallow,” Misfire said, and as much as it was worded like an order, it sounded more like gleeful conspiring,

Swerve snorted as he asked, “Seriously?”

And Misfire puffed his bottom lip out in a  _pout_  while transfluid still dripped down his face.

And his optics glittered when Swerve just started laughing again, even as he leaned in closer.

It took a moment, but Swerve managed to focus enough to curl his glossa as he licked up Misfire’s cheek, catching a little pool that he held there as he pulled back. The mystery didn’t go unanswered for long though as Misfire grasped Swerve’s face with both servos and leaned back in to thrust his glossa into Swerve’s mouth, swirling to catch the transfluid and swallow it down himself. Swerve shuddered and opened his mouth wider for Misfire, and he couldn’t help noticing that his whines were met with an equal number of rumbling hums and groans from Misfire as he licked Swerve’s glossa and mouth clean of transfluid.

“Gross.”

Misfire licked his lips.

“Liar. You loved it.”

“I can think it’s gross and still love it,” Swerve pointed out and Misfire just grinned wider.

“Neither of us know how to shut up,  _or_  how to aim,  _and_ we both have nasty oral fixations?” Misfire asked as he lifted his servo to his face, swiping more of the transfluid off. The dirtied digits immediately were caught between Misfire’s lips and he sucked them clean, slipping his glossa between and across them as he did, all while his gaze was focused on Swerve’s.

Swerve didn’t know if he had ever depressurized after his overload, but he did know he was fully rigid now as he stammered, “Wait, don’t swallow,” and pressed his mouth to Misfire’s in a messy tangle of glossae and digits and transfluid and loud, drawn out moans.

By the time Misfire’s face was finally clean, he had Swerve pressed back into the berth and his servo back around Swerve’s spike.

“What’s your opinion on clone-fucking, pipsqueak?”

Swerve shuddered as he grabbed at Misfire’s thighs where they straddled the minibot’s hips. Misfire’s valve dripped lubricant down onto Swerve’s sensitive array and his hips drifted down just enough to let the lips kiss the tip of Swerve’s spike.

“I’m very pro clone-fucking.”

“Yet another thing we have in common,” Misfire announced with glee before dropping down to completely encase Swerve inside his hot clenching valve. Swerve hadn’t even overloaded yet, wasn’t even over that first wave of pleasure with Misfire around him, and already he couldn’t wait to lick his transfluid out of Misfire’s valve.

And when Swerve told Misfire that, the flyer gasped out “Oh  _frag_ yes” as his valve spiraled tight in overload.

The universe was so going to regret letting them meet, and it Swerve loved it.


End file.
